


Command me to be well

by linascribbles



Series: Verse [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Temporary Character Death, Character Study, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Andy | Andromache of Scythia, Relationship Study, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sort Of, To a point, expect a lot of vaguely catholic undertones, love as a religion, musings about religion, suicidal thoughts and actions born of grief, they’re a cliché for a reason, yes this is yet another fic inspired by hozier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:09:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29207892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linascribbles/pseuds/linascribbles
Summary: “Sheknew everybody's disapproval,”of us,she doesn’t add. It’s not necessary when the next thing that slips out is an ugly sound of agony, pain wrapped up in a love so deep it hurt even when it wasn’t yet a tragedy. “I should've worshipped her sooner,” she sobs.A relationship study of Andromaquýnh set to Take Me To Church by Hozier
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko
Series: Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2155392
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	Command me to be well

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics are in bold, some lines slightly reworked to fit the sentences. I know a fic set by Hozier is a massive cliché but the idea wouldn't leave me alone and I was feeling like trying my hand at angst :) Mature rating is for vaguely implied sex but mostly the angst.
> 
> Thank you [@silvermadi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orientation/pseuds/silvermadi) for beating this and leaving lots of sweet comments, go check out her stuff <3

Andromache knows it’s coming. It's only expected and she doesn’t resent it but she knows how to read people too well and Nile’s as easy to predict as the next rainstorm. She should have known Nicky and Joe’s explanation wouldn’t suffice, that they left more questions than answers. She does brace for it, for the whole week it takes Nile to gather up the courage. 

“How is Quýnh? If you don’t mind me asking, like as a person,” she ducks her head down with the question, like she’s trying to make herself unobtrusive physically as she bludgeons her psychologically. _ Present tense _ ,  _ so she’s still having nightmares. So Quýnh’s still… _

She tried to brace herself, doesn’t mean she succeeded.

She contemplates for a second to tell her that she  _ does  _ mind actually and could they please go back to axe throwing, she’s still terrible at it. There’s a part of her, fierce and protective that still balks like a panicked horse at the mere mention of Quýnh. It’s a wound that’ll never scar and that she wants to irrationally hide, to keep to herself. Not because she doesn’t want to bleed on others but because it's  _ hers _ . Quýnh is hers and this world is not worthy of her and much less her memory.

But that’s not true, and Andy knows it. Quýnh wasn’t hers, she was only her own. And Joe and Nicky lost her too. So she forces herself to stop strangling the handle of the tomahawk. Quietly watches the blood flow back to her whitened knuckles and takes a deep breath.

“She’s funny,” she whispers, quieter than she intended. The sole memory brings a chuckle to her throat, it chokes her on the way out. “ **My lover's got humour,”** she echoes, softer still and takes a deep breath, bringing some of that Andromache of Scythia’s historically famed nerves of steel. “ **She's the giggle at a funeral.** I can’t tell you how many times she made us crack up at the worst times on missions. She’s probably the only person who could make Nicky laugh almost as much as Joe.” She shakes her head, memories of countless campfires streaming through her mind’s eye. They’d fall down in laughter regularly back then, gasping for air and unable to get it back. She never had gotten to settle their bet on whether it was possible to kill one of them via laughter after all. “She  **knew everybody's disapproval,”** _ of us _ , she doesn’t add. It’s not necessary when the next thing that slips out is an ugly sound of agony, pain wrapped up in a love so deep it hurt even when it wasn’t yet a tragedy. “ **I should've worshipped her sooner,”** she sobs.

* * *

Andromache doesn’t know if she believes in anything anymore. If there’s some form of grand power that guides their or anyone’s hand. She’s seen so many religions come and go, some beautiful, some frightening, some she could almost feel herself buying into. It’s hard to believe  _ one  _ human or organization has gained access to the divine. That they and only they held the truth, the Revelation when they seem to come and go in the blink of an eye and switch every other people.

She’s only ever taken what she sees in front of herself as truth since her first death. It’s all she needs. There is enough beauty and horror, enough reverence and hate to be found in nature for her not to need to go looking for more in other planes of existence. 

She’s been alone for so long, plagued by delirious dreams and no explanation for her soul or body or mind’s stubborn will to live. When she finds Quýnh and realizes she’s no longer alone, that her dreams are not delusions after all, that it catches her off guard. The Revelation. The only one she’d ever needed. **If the heavens ever did speak,** **she's the last true mouthpiece.** She’s found the centre of her universe for all she cares about the rest.

The thing about religion is that it is anywhere, whenever. It’s in different forms and different configurations but it’s there. And so many of them talk of the afterlife, of life after death, of  _ rest _ . And afterwards Andromache is so tired.

Of life. Of not getting to rest but also of  _ them _ , justifying their crimes underneath that same banner. Promising all she desires with the same breath they took all she ever cherished. The calls to prayer sound over too many cities and  **every Sunday's getting more bleak.** They feel like  **a fresh poison each week.**

She thought it’d pass yet it hasn't. She hasn’t even learned to live with it.

* * *

She charges into their room, teeth clenched, already casting her eyes around for her axe.

“Andromache-” Quýnh’s voice calls her from where she’s still standing at the door, arms crossed. A whole paragraph of meaning inside her name.

“Don’t tell me to calm down,” she grits out, unnecessarily, Quýnh has never told her to dim herself for the sake of others. “I’m-” She finally finds the weapon, sequestered on a messy corner, a blatant sign of how comfortable they’d gotten in this place. Which only makes it hurt even more because--

“Andromache,” Quýnh repeats, coming closer. “My love, leave the axe.”

**"’We were born sick’,"** she echoes the men outside, spitting the venom with much more hate than their close minded lives could ever encompass. She feels like a boiling lightning storm looming in the horizon, ready to rain down lightning on them and burn them to smithereens. “ **You heard them say it.”**

“You know I don't care what they believe,” Quýnh lays her hand over her grip on the axe. “They can justify their hate however they want. It will never make it more than that. Ignorance and fear born out of the unknown. That’s why **my church offers no absolutes,”** she says quietly, looking deep into her lover's eyes, letting her see the only truth they ever needed. 

The axe clatters down on the floor from her softened fingers. Andromache forgets about the world outside as she delves into the centre of her universe. 

They used to avoid this type of situations with Lykon’s presence, but he’s not there with them anymore and that still hurts too much to think about.

Quýnh leans in as **she tells her, "Worship in the bedroom. The only heaven I'll be sent to is when I'm alone with you,”** her hand, calloused but somehow still soft in the reverence that moves it, travels up her arm. Goosebumps rise in the wake of her fingers. Her eyes are bright and Andromache doesn’t think she can hold inside of her the amount of love this woman inspires in her. **“I was born sick,”** she grins then, wicked and sharp, brimming with promises. **“But I love it.”** Completely unrepentant.

They stumble into their sleeping nest, skin touching and breath heaving without even sharing a kiss yet. Trembling hands travel over unmarred skin as they grasp at each other, suddenly desperate for the act of defiance that is their love.

“If your church is accepting members,” she mumbles into the crook of her neck, one of her favourite hiding places before skimming her lips downwards at her answering hum.. **“Command me to be well,”** she whispers as she kisses the quivering muscles of Quýnh’s soft stomach, skin so smooth underneath her mouth it feels like kissing warm silk.

“ **A-amen,”** the hand in her hair twitches as Andromache reaches her destination. **“Amen, amen”** Quýnh’s chant is half chuckle, half sigh. “ **Take me to church.”**

* * *

The campfire crackles between them, mixed with the sounds of the night. Overlaid is the reassuring familiar cadence of Quýnh’s knife against the sharpening stone. Andromache drinks her in from the other side of the flames. Ignoring their tantalizing dance in favour of the methodical, repetitive sight of Quýnh’s arms guiding the blade to perfect sharpness. A vision born out of her dreams and brought into harsh but infinitely more perfect reality. They’re still dancing around each other, gauging what this new life means. Andromache has had years, too many of them already, yet she had them alone. She isn’t alone anymore. 

Quýnh might not trust her yet but Andromache made her decision the second her shadow fell over the other woman’s body as she gasped alive again. 

She’s sitting on a stump, stone and weapon between her legs. The firelight casts shadows over her skin and brings out reddish highlights on her uncovered hair. She makes it seem like a throne. She told Andromache she was a mere village woman, with an insignificant life before her first death. 

Andromache is too good at reading people.

_ I’ve been hailed as a god _ , she thinks,  _ but  _ **_I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies._ **

“I don’t remember my family’s faces,” she confesses into the dark, giving up one of her darkest secrets as a warning.  _ That will happen to you too _ is what she doesn’t add.

Quýnh doesn’t startle at the sudden sound of her voice, her task taking far less of her attention than she pretended.

“Mine turned me away,” she replies. And in the ensuing silence she hears the words the other woman doesn’t say:  _ We’ll be each other’s family now. _

They talk, in the hushed tones only the night calls for, even though the closest settlement is days away even on the fastest horse on this deserted road.

They tell the other everything, little by little. Because they are the only other person who will understand, who will listen, believe, and still  _ stay _ . 

**_I'll tell you my sins, and you can sharpen your knife._ **

* * *

The lanterns swing in the night breeze, swaying and casting wild shadows among the dancers. Andromache loses Quýnh in the crowd, only to catch glimpses through the undulating bodies. The cloyingly sweet smoke is heavy in the air, filling her lungs and clouding her mind. 

The lights warp, melding into horses and antlers and griffins. She always forgets how much these things bring her back to her origins. A part of herself seeks them out for that same reason, desperate not to forget what life was like when it still had an end.

Her tribe is gone now, lost to the steppe and the relentless passage of time. Her religion is too, she remembers believing in something, spoken around campfires no different that the one she’s in now. Huddled with her family, the horses nickering in the background, feeling loved.

She’s displaced now, and her original position has been lost forever.  **_If I'm a pagan of the good times_ ** **,** her muddled mind thinks, searching for another glimpse through the shadows.  **_My lover's the sunlight._ ** Quýnh emerges between them, the fire lighting her from behind. 

In that desert, burnt and dying, in a desolate land where nothing cast a shadow, Andromache found real sunlight.

She extends her hand, reaching out towards her lover and before their skins touch, she’s snatched away for the next dance, out of her reach.

* * *

If to save Quýnh,  **to keep the Goddess on my side, she demands a sacrifice,** Andromache’d do everything in her power.

**“Drain the whole sea,”** she shrieks at the coast. The brutal sound of the crashing waves reaching land relentlessly burns at her. Like they didn’t just swallow her love, her life, her  _ everything _ . She scrambles, fighting against Yusuf and Nicolò’s hands, desperate to reach the glint of the sun in the horizon, to dive down and search herself. The glint of the sun against the waves gives her an idea. She turns and  **gets something shiny;** the dagger bites as it plunges into her chest. Her lungs constrict at the pain, robbing her of her breath and she wonders if that’s what she’s feeling that same moment. If the similar pain somehow brings them closer. It’s been decades and it still hurts like the first day.

How can existence be so painful? She thought she knew pain, had savoured it in all its forms in her thousands of years of life. But all of that was just the start, the appetizer for this. She should have expected  **something meaty for the main course.**

The dagger gets worked out from her grip as it slackens in death. Yusuf and Nicolò’s words get lost in the sound of the turf, yet another thing the sea takes from her. 

When she comes back to life they are away from the waves. They’ve carried her to the stables. Either because they know the horses tend to calm her or because there are less potentially lethal elements in them. She doesn’t particularly care.

“Andromache, please,” Nicolò starts, and she’s not sure what he’s asking for but she’s already bristling.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Yusuf adds, hands open to the sides in a placating gesture, like she’s the frightened, cornered animal. She doesn’t feel that far from it if she’s being honest. The agony is so sharp it makes it painful to breathe.

“You took very long this time,” Nicolò says quietly, green eyes big as he looks at her, concerned like always.

_ Because I didn't want to come back. If only it had stuck, _ she thinks, bitterness corroding the back of her throat. 

“This is not the way to deal with this Andromache,” Yusuf takes a step closer, probably attempting to touch her, reassure her with his graceful artistic hands, always so clever and capable. Just like Quýnh’s.

**“That's a fine-looking high horse,”** she snarls at them. “Telling me what I can't or can’t do.” She knows deep down that this isn’t right, that it’s her pain lashing out, hoping it might make her feel something to hurt someone else. They have lost her as well, their sister, a quarter of their small family. They’ve also just lost their last chance at a lead on where they threw her away. “What if it was  _ him _ ?” She doesn’t need to say a name, they understand. The hurt in their eyes is not as satisfactory as the grief promised, and most definitely not worth the resulting shame. “ **What you got in the stable?”** She looks around, suddenly desperate to be away. They won’t stop her, she knows, not if she insists. “I’m leaving.”

* * *

They stroll into the city with their guard up. They’ve faced an unusual number of bandits on the way in and the gaunt faces and dead eyes they’ve spotted on the fields are a familiar and dreaded sight. Death from starvation is horrible. Though for them the worst part is waking up again and realizing it’s just a matter of a short time for it to happen again. 

This era of accusations of witchcraft and heresy has found new ways to surprise even her at how intent people are to kill others.

She tightens her grip on her horse’s reigns at the hungry looks that trail after it. Her hand falls to her labrys on instinct. 

The four of them are a sight, too powerful, too rosy cheeked for the environment. People notice. Small towns never like strangers, much less well-fed ones. 

The priest sticks out like a gash in the beaten town, his red robes match his rosy complexion and strong frame. He ambles through the main street, steps unburdened behind the wall of his guards, drawing looks and reverences. Andromache can read behind his pleasant little smile the power he holds. 

She doesn’t need to look at Nicolò to know he’s brimming with fury. She’s learned already to step aside when Nicolò’s usually calm demeanour breaks. It doesn’t happen often yet for now he’s only cracking.

The man of the inn almost refuses their coin. Metal can’t be eaten, their leathers and horses can. One pointed look at the amount of weapons hanging on their bodies dissuade him from that notion and any other comment about their eccentricities. They offer work as payment instead. They’re strong and healthy, and taking in the shake of his hands as he cleans the counters, it’s doubtful he’s had the strength to do his daily chores lately. He accepts.

The caravan passes through the town in mid-morning. The harvest piled on it looks luscious even to her eyes, and she hasn’t missed a meal yet. They watch it cross the street, guarded on either side by more soldiers that she’s seen defend bankers on richer cities. They too look well fed. The well’s rope creaks under her grip.

Her eyes find Quýnhs a few paces away, a whole conversation in a glance. The door opens, Yusuf and Nicolò walk out carrying the rugs they promised to dust off. The sight of the cart draws them short. Yusuf frowns, cocking his head to the side. Nicolò, on the other hand, falls into that deathly stillness that makes even the hair at the nape of her neck rise. 

He quietly rests the rugs on the floor, taking care to leave them out of the way and out of the wind. Without a word, he follows the cart, Yusuf immediately falling into place after him. Andromache watches them go for only a second before walking back into the inn, followed by Quýnh to take a particular piece of their luggage before following their brothers.

For all that Nicolò’s fury is a force of nature, he’s still kind and hopeful. Andromache would say naive if she didn’t know it was born out of a deliberate choice and had little to do with ignorance of this world’s horrors.

She finds them in the door of the church, staring at the priest through the line of soldiers guarding him. Nicolò is taller than any of them, and his unblinking stare already has them squirming in their stances. Andromache feels her lips curl.

**“We've a lot of starving faithful,”** his accent is soft but present in the Anglo-Saxon tongue. His Latin and Romances are better, naturally. He gestures to the cart and back to the famished town.

**“That looks tasty,”** Yusuf adds from his side, drawing their eyes. They frown at the sight of him, eyes narrowing and their annoyance turning into hate. 

**“That looks plenty,”** Quýnh cocks her head to the side, right arm already extending towards Andromache and the pack she carries. The cloth and the sounds of the men working with the food has muffled the clink of metal on metal as she approached.

The men keep unloading the cart, arms quivering at the weight of the food they’ll never eat. Sunken cheeks and hollow eyes barely turn their way at their words, but the soldiers are still shuffling in place, some cocking their heads to the side in a sad attempt at bravado. Others, less foolish or more guilty, divert their eyes.

Andromache slides her hand inside the pack. It easily finds the handle of her lover’s favourite knife. This is no range for her deathly arrows sadly. No matter, her pit viper has more than one poison up her fangs.

**“This is hungry work,”** Andromache jerks her head to the working men, eyes narrowing menacingly when the priest makes eye contact with her. 

He sputters, anger bringing even more red to his face. His frame is sturdy, if not tall. In another era he might have been considered handsome if he wasn’t so despicable. 

The insult barely leaves his lips, curled in arrogance and drunk on the feeling only small men can mistake for power before the sound of a sword being unsheathed drowns his words out and yet another shade of red appears on his person. A gash, straight across his neck.

Nicolò’s arm remains in the air for a suspended second, sharp and unwavering before the soldier who lost his weapon realizes what happened and the others take notice of their failure. 

Quýnh’s skin is warm as always as she passes her the knife. 

Rumours of a pair of demons joined by two witches who murder men of faith start to spread.

* * *

She falls to her knees when she sees her. Andromache of Scythia offers herself to the only divine being she ever recognized, offering up her life, as little of that as remains. Once upon a time she’d thought she’d  **offer her that deathless death** over and over but  **good god, let her give her her life** , now that she can. She was the only thing that made it worth living for so long it’s practically already hers. 

The tears stream down her cheeks unattended, uncaring and relentless. She gasps at the feel of the hand on her cheek, the callouses as familiar as her own even after all this time.

“ _ Quýnh _ ,” half gasp-half prayer, complete devotion.

Their eyes meet and the sob breaks free because through it all it’s her. Broken, jagged and unmade but it's  _ her _ . The centuries have not been kind on Andromache and she hasn’t been kind to them in return. Nevertheless, that moment makes her think that they can find their way back to each other if only they try. 

What else could she do with the few decades she has left?

**No masters or kings** could keep them apart from each other now, not  **when the ritual begins.**

Because for all that they remain ruthless in the battlefield, for all the way that Quýnh is a pit viper in a fight and Andromache’s as relentless and unstoppable as a summer storm, they melt in proximity. All that tautness slacks, shivers away with a caress,  **there is no sweeter innocence than their gentle sin.** It’s only when they’re together,  **in the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene** that they call life that Andromache  _ feels _ . **Only then she is human. Only then she is clean.**

“Andromache,” Quýnh whispers back. She hooks her long hair behind her ear and before her eyes Andromache sees a small scratch, small and insignificant on her cheek. Inconspicuous and wondrous all the same. As impossible as the woman who stands before her.

Quýnh brings the hand down, both now cradling her head as she leans in and presses their foreheads together. A tear slips over her soft cheek, highlighting the only wound Andromache has ever been thankful to see in her lover. 

“You and me Andromache,” her voice is hoarse, brittle. “Till the end.” 

Through her sobs their kiss tastes salty, both like grief and happiness, like gasping alive once more.  **_Oh, oh, amen, amen, amen_ ** _. _

x

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [my tumblr @quiquimora](https://quiquimora.tumblr.com) if you want to come yell at me about this or TOG in general, or you can leave a comment here if that's your thing, I always reply ;)  
> Thanks for reading! <3


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